


A Scrapbook Full of Candy

by bluedotr



Category: My Candy Love
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, Humour
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-29
Updated: 2019-08-08
Packaged: 2020-03-27 14:34:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19014865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluedotr/pseuds/bluedotr
Summary: Candy, with different boys, in different moments, in different times. A collection of ficlets cross-posted from Tumblr for different boys in Sweet Amoris.





	1. Flicker (Castiel x MC)

**Author's Note:**

> I originally posted these little ficlets on Tumblr on a whim whenever the inspiration took me, but as my friend kindly pointed out that it wouldn't be a bad idea to post them here either. So here they are! As always, feedback is greatly appreciated.

Her breath catches in her throat when his gaze roves over the top of her head at the concert stage – and then he spots her and starts, jerking away from the mike. He misses his cue by half a beat, then he’s back to singing, pouring his feelings and soul into his performance. His eyes keep glancing back in her direction afterwards, and every time she catches him looking at her, her heart grows tighter, beating erratically

It takes Rosalya three full songs to notice. When she does, the woman elbows her, grinning.

“Still miss him? It’s been four years, you know.”

Rosalya has to yell this over the cacophony, and it’s almost overwhelmed by the booming bass, his voice, and the shriek of electric guitar. As if _missing him_ could accurately describe the breadth of what she was feeling now.

When Crowstorm finishes their encore, it’s almost midnight and Rosalya drags her off to a bar saying something about post-concert drinks, that’s where Cas is headed after. Of course she knows: Rosalya still keeps in touch with both him and Lysander, after all.

While Rosalya charms their way past the bouncer, she tries not to remember how him and Lysander used to sit in Sweet Amoris’ courtyard, humming tunes and writing songs.

She tries not to think about when he played her the song he’d written for her, before they broke their hearts and she moved away.

Rosalya’s hand is firm, steering her towards her fate. Her heart won’t stop going at a mile an hour, being funneled past the bright lights and even more loud music. Then she sees him lounging casually by the bar, tattoos and red jacket and a stringy tie on his neck.

When he glances over at her, she almost wrenches her arm out of Rosalya’s vice-like grip to bolt, because she was not ready for this, she would never be ready for this.

His steely gray eyes pin her into place, and her mind abandons the attempt to run, to escape. For a moment, everything fades and mutes around her, narrowing to him looking at her, her stomach a cage of butterflies.

He breaks the (relative) silence first, because he’s him and she shouldn’t have expected any less. Some things don’t change, not after four years.

“Look who’s back in town.”

Castiel’s nursing his drink, hand curled around a cheap glass filled with an amber liquid, cocky smile on his face, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. Once, they’d crinkle with affection, even as he pretended he wasn’t that pleased to see her. Once, he’d have pulled her in and whispered something sweet and filthy in her ear and made her blush.

“You didn’t tell me you’d formed a band.”

The words come out like an accusation, and she immediately wants to take it back. The smile dies on his face, and his eyes harden, pinpricks of grey jasper staring at her.

“You thought I’d wait to tell you?”

“A text would’ve been nice,” she answers, trying for joking. She meets his gaze head-on, refusing to waver, as he looks her head-to-toe slowly, like he was taking her in again.

“People move on,” is his answer. “It wasn’t like – ”

Then he stops dead, a needle skidding off record. There’s something akin to disbelief in his eyes, and he shakes his head, blinking and looking a little confused. She notices where he’s looking at and clears her throat, ignoring how her face is slowly beginning to burn.

“Cas, eyes up here.”

“I – ” He sets down his drink, and gestures in the vague area of her chest. “How - when did you – ”

“What?”

“When did your chest inflate?”

“My chest – what?!”

Before her mind can catch up, her hands have already grabbed him by the shoulders, shaking him and demanding to know what the hell did he mean by that, why was he even looking to begin with. She forgets that they were no longer so close she could do that to him, that they’d been broken up for four years -

When she finally remembers herself, she lets go mid-shake as though her hands burned. If she wasn’t red-faced then, she was now. 

Rosalya’s mouth is agape, for once looking less drop-dead-gorgeous and more human - like a goldfish. But Castiel doesn’t look angry. In fact, his eyes are sparkling. This time, the smile does reach his eyes as he ruffles her hair, ignoring her protest.

The touch is gentler than she expects, and she thinks she can feel his hand unsteady, tremulous. Like he doesn’t believe she’s really there.

“Well.” His smile widens. “Looks like I can’t call you an ironing board anymore.”


	2. Heartlines (Lysander x MC)

Her first paycheck from the Cozy Bear Café isn’t spent on clothes, or on movies, or frivolities. She takes the money from the account, runs down to the nearest ticket booth, and books a round trip four-hour train ticket to a place carved into her memory for the study break mid-semester. Because for all of Rosalya’s attempts at pushing her and Hyun together, for all the well-intentioned half-reprimands that she ought to move on, she never really did.

(Once, Rosalya professed she’d do anything to have her as a sister-in-law. That promise was left behind, along with so many things from high school.)

You never really moved on from your first love. Not from someone as gentle, as romantic, but as solid and reliable as him. When everyone had turned against her, believing that girl’s lies, he’d been the only one to hold her hand and let her cry into his chest, arms strong, steady, even as his green ruffled collar tickled her nose.

She’d been there for him when his father died. Shortly after that, she had to move. It’d broken both of them – she raged and screamed and begged _please, let me stay with Auntie, I can do university here, or go live in the dorms_ ; he put on a brave face and kissed her, holding her close whenever they met, papering over the cracks.

The night before she was due to leave, she went to his place when Leigh and Rosalya were away. They stayed up and talked about their dreams – Lysander of poetry, of literature, her of art and museums and dreading post-modern art. Neither of them dared to mention staying here, like this, for good.

He didn’t come see her off on her moving day. She counted it a small mercy, and got into the car as fast as she could so she wouldn’t break down in the driveway.

A few weeks after she left, he moved home and was too far for any major train line to reach. Her care packages cost too much to send, and didn’t always get to him on time or intact. Skype conversations were hard to schedule, and seeing each other made missing him worse. Little things, building up to remind her he wasn’t there, that she couldn’t be there, until one day, they – snapped.

She didn’t hear from him for weeks, months. Once, Rosalya and Violette and Alexy would have been on hand to comfort her (them), patch things up, but they were hours away. Sometimes, she’d open up Skype, and hope to see a tiny green bubble next to his name. Every time she saw it grey and dull, her heart twisted a little more.

She went to a nearby university, kissed a few boys, got into some trouble, but the image of green-yellow eyes never left her. Sometimes, a jostle too rough from a date made her wish that those hands holding her were gentler, less calloused.

One day, her phone rang in the middle of a lecture. She picked it up, and her heart cleaved itself into two when she heard him, faint and broken-voiced on the other end, asking if he could speak to her for a little while.

He almost hung up when she tried to take time to process the information. Almost, because she escaped from the lecture hall, away from the bored-looking professor droning on, into the corridor. She told him yes, she had all the time in the world, what was wrong, please, don’t be sad, was everything alright?

She’d never make it to his mother’s funeral in time, but she sat up in quiet areas of the campus that were open 24 hours, listening to him pouring his heart out. On those days, it was like he was there, and she wanted to reach across telephone lines to just him, hug him, tell him everything would be okay, that he still had Leigh. She nearly told him he had her too, but it didn’t feel right to say that, she didn’t deserve to say that.

They didn’t fall out of touch again. If it wasn’t a phone call, it was text messages, or WhatsApp, or voice-recorded messages. He listened to her gripe and moan and yell obscenities into the phone about her assignments, group projects; she heard his dreams of poetry slip further away, heard him talk about the farm, how he’d take care of it, how he was happy to carry on his parents’ legacy.

Sometimes, if she closed her eyes, she could see the same strong, brave face he’d put on, in the days before she left Sweet Amoris, reassuring her he was okay. Or had those words been for himself?

With each passing day, they got a little braver again. Not as they used to, not so close that she could curl up in his voice and smile absently to herself. But bit by bit, re-learning what the other liked, what the other was like. As if something had lit a fire, and neither were willing to let it die out.

One evening, she was feeling particularly brave (or foolish) and blurted out the question burning in the back of her mind.

“You think I can visit you, if I ever make it back to Sweet Amoris? The train’s close enough from there.”

The silence was deafening, and she began stuttering and stammering and asking please could you forget that because she was just – asking – it wasn’t as though –

“I’d like that.” She heard his faint smile. “When you come back.”

When. Not if. She was grinning stupidly when she walked to her next class, so much that her classmate nudged her and asked her if she’d found herself a new boyfriend on Tinder.

So here she is now, on the train, watching hills roll by, her heart caught up in her chest and not knowing if the leather-bound notebook she found in a corner indie store was adequate. Adequate, because it would never be good enough, not to make up for all that distance, all that hurt, all that time.

All that she forgets, however, when she steps off the train and sees him waiting in the Arrivals Hall, eyes checking the clock a little too worriedly for her taste. He’s not in his Victorian clothes that she loved him wearing – now, it’s simpler, thinner, a Henley shirt, khaki slacks, sleeves rolled up. His hair’s longer, but it’s still silver and dark at the tips, his eyes green-yellow, and when he spots her, the corners of his lips curl up the way they used to. He looks a little more tan, a little more rugged, a little more tired, but it doesn’t stop her from running like a maniac, bobbing and weaving through startled elderly and children to throw herself at him.

He catches her easily, and she can feel his corded muscle and strength where there hadn’t been any before. The hands that lace at the small of her back feel rougher, worn, and he smells of leather and hay. If she closes her eyes and breathes a little more deeply, arms around his neck, she can smell paper and him.

She extricates herself reluctantly from his grasp, and is met by a misty-eyed gaze, one hand brought up to her cheek.

“Hey,” she says, grinning. His smile grows wider, tender, and she thinks if she closes her eyes, he might kiss her.

He doesn’t. Instead, he lets go, but offers her his arm, and says something about driving her back to the farm, where she can stay in the guest bedroom for a while before going back.

She still doesn’t know how often she’ll be able to come visit him. She doesn’t know how long this will last, or where this will take them next. But if they had their way, it wouldn’t be like last time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lysander! My favourite boy out of all of them - well, him and Nath, and they both broke my heart in MCL:UL. I'm still trying - after all this time - to come up with something happier. Maybe I will, when I'm not so moody he's not here anymore.


	3. Tremors (Nathaniel x MC)

Nathaniel’s hands are shaking when he gets off the phone. He doesn’t notice it when he sets the phone down on his bedside table, but he nearly empties the contents of his glass when he picks it up to take a sip. Then it hits him - his chest is too tight, it’s too hard to breathe.

Blanche hops into his lap and mewls, blue eyes peering up at him. He stares at her, but she is unfazed, grey-tipped ears twitching and tail swishing from side to side. He caves and scoops her up into his arms, pressing his nose to her soft, furry body.

After the first breath, his hands stop shaking. At the second, he breathes more easily. At the third, he sneezes, the fur tickling his nose, and Blanche makes the loudest, most discontent _mroawr_ he’s ever heard. It pries a thin, broken laugh out of him: at least one person – creature – he loved that hadn’t left him behind, hadn’t hurt him.

But why had he expected any differently? He should’ve been used to it, because he’d never be good enough, for her, for his parents, if he was good enough maybe he wouldn’t be abandoned, hurt again –

He pushes those thoughts away. He shouldn’t be so harsh, because she _had_ been here for him, when she first came, when he and Castiel got into arguments and worse, when she’d found out what he’d been through. He remembers every hellish moment he’d spent living in that house, but he remembered her warmth on his bare skin, her clinging onto him on his old bed, face pressed into a still aching shoulder, steadying him, calming him as his rage burned.

Neither of them wanted to break up, but it’d been the most logical thing to do, when his mind had gone numb with the news she had to go, had to move, had to go, leave Sweet Amoris ( _him_ ) behind. It all went back to him, didn’t it? Everything. Every time he hurt, it was because of him.

His fingers twitches towards the phone, the beginnings of an apology on his lips, the beginnings of a plea: forget your parents, we’ll find you a place, there’s a spare bed at mine, stay at mine (stay with me), we don’t need to do this, we can try, make it work –

Then he remembers how curt she was, how hurt she sounded, and the hope turns to ash.

These thoughts won’t work. Twisting all these thoughts up and inside of himself won’t work. So he scratches Blanche behind her ears, grabs his gym bag, his boxing gear, and heads out. A session would do him a world of good. Maybe when tomorrow rolls around, he’ll have a clearer head, a better solution.

(He doesn’t know that his _tomorrow_ turns into _day after_ , then a week, then two. By the third week, when he’s thought things through, she’s already gone, and it’ll be years before he sees her again.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise I am capable of writing non-angsty MCL fics. I really am, it's just I tend to write better when I'm melancholy than anything else - which leads to some rather repetitive pieces. These were written in the era when MCL had just announced they'd broken up our Candies... so I responded in my own way.


	4. Ballads (Castiel x MC)

“We need to talk.”

Never had four words sent so much dread down a man’s spine. In Castiel’s case, the dread was amplified ten-fold, given that him and his lovely ironing board – ahem, _sweetie_ had only just gotten back together.

He glances up, sheets of lyrics and melodies still clutched in his hand, searching his high school sweetheart for any trace of teasing. A moment later, he sighs, sets them down, and pats the spot next to him on the couch. She remains absolutely resolute, nose screwed up and hands on her hips.

“What’s up?” He tries for a smirk, hoping to get the sulk off her face, but she is immovable.

“Don’t ‘what’s up’ me, Castiel, you know what this is about.”

Castiel wracks his brains, trying to pinpoint what had gone wrong. As far as he’s concerned, they’d gone from slap-flirting to actually flirting to kissing and now she was back with him, next to him (peaceful, body warm against his, as it always should have been). On slow, sleepy mornings, he’d wake up to find her sprawled next to him, hair obscuring her features, snuffling softly. He wouldn’t tell her she snuffled. She’d just sleep in a separate room from him, then where would he be?

“You’re _so_ whipped,” one of his bandmates told him, when they’d been chilling at a bar on tour. “Have you _ever_ stopped texting her while we’re on tour?”

Castiel wouldn’t have it any other way, not even when his bandmates ribbed him and tried to get him together with a groupie, because that would be taking advantage of someone, and more importantly, no one could ever really replace her. That was so sappy.

Sure, he’s busy with the release of his newest album, but she’d been nothing but patient and understanding, three steps ahead and ordering in so when he got home, he’d have steaming cartons of takeaway and hot soup ready for him.

“No, I don’t sweetie, really.” She’s within tugging distance now, so he takes the chance to tug her closer, wrap her in his arms, press a kiss to her temple, and nip at her ear. That makes her lips twitch, but no smile. “Now tell Daddy Cas what’s wrong - ”

“Do _not_ call yourself Daddy, that’s just all kinds of creepy - ”

“Fine, tell your _loving boyfriend_ what’s wrong - ”

“What’s this about you selling ironing boards?”

“Mini ironing boards,” he corrects her, toying with a strand of her hair. “It’s just an idea I was floating.”

“An idea for what?”

“Merch. For Crowstorm’s next single.”

“What’s the single called?”

“A Eulogy to - ”

His mind finally catches up, and he puts a screeching halt to that train of thought. Not quite fast enough, because she’s now glaring at him, arms crossed. She hasn’t made a move to wriggle out of his arms yet. A good sign, as far as he was concerned.

“It’s a ballad, of course it’s called a eulogy!”

“I know it’s a ballad, I heard you strumming it months ago, but the title - ”

“It’s a catchy title.”

“No, it’s not! I don’t even know _where_ you got that idea from!”

“Really? You, out of all people?”

“Shut _up_ , you know how much I like you calling me that…”

“I have _some_ idea of how much you like me calling you that, you nearly brained me with an actual one while I was doing that radio interview.”

“You deserved it!”

“The single’s title was meant to be a surprise for you!”

“Oh, it definitely was, given it was on a _live radio show_.”

“I called you my muse!”

“Yes, but - ”

She sighs, and rests her head against his chest. They stay like this, cuddled on his couch, and he savours how perfectly she fits against him.

“The _point_ , Cas, is – did you _really_ have to call it An Eulogy to the Ironing Board?”

He turns her around, her straddling him and him looking solemnly into her eyes. She is adorable – gorgeous actually, though if he told her as much, she’d blush and stutter and whine he was teasing her again. On most days, he wasn’t. “Think of all the merch – notebooks, stickers, actual ironing boards - ”

“Who’s going to _use_ mini-ironing boards?”

“Tourists, backpackers, rabid fangirls,” he answers idly, resting his hands on her hips, tracing the bare skin he feels. “And then you’d have inflatable ironing board floats, because - ”

 _“Castiel!_ ”

She smacks him on the arm, but they’re both laughing. He pulls her in for another kiss, nipping her lower lip. She freezes, but when he grips her a little more firmly around her hips, pulling her closer to him, she relents and melts into the kiss. They don’t talk for a good minute or so, and when they break apart, her pupils are blown open and her lips rosy.

“If you’re pissed about that,” he says, voice muzzy to his ears. “We both know you’re not an ironing board.” His smile grows wider, and he remembers how cute she looks when she flushes. And how far the flush spreads down her neck, her body. “I’m very aware of that fact.”

“Hmph.” She mocks sulking, turning her face away from him. “If you’re not changing your plans, then I demand royalties.”

“Mmhm.”

“Thirty percent.”

“What?”

“Royalties. From all Crowstorm-related sales.”

“You - ”

“Specifically all ironing-board-merch related sales.”

“That’s a hard bargain.”

“I’m your muse, _and_ I’m in the name of your album, so I should at least earn some profit off it.”

He pretends to consider it for a moment. He thinks she’s joking. Thinks, because he isn’t sure right now, and he really can’t muster the brain power to think properly when he’s got more pressing issues to deal with. Pressing down against him. And pressing against her thigh. There was no chance she’d miss that.

“Would you accept a lower profit share?”

“Mm…” She places one finger against her lips, giving him a coy glance, and he resists the urge to push her onto the couch right there and then. “Depends. What’re you offering?”

He takes in the sight of her on his lap, barely clinging on to the shreds of his restraint. Non-verbal communication was never the best way to conduct any sort of business discussion, but he was confident he’d get the point across if he put his mind to it. Maybe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I originally posted on my Tumblr... this fic is pretty much to show that I can write crack. Fluffy crack. Think of it as a follow up to Flicker at the very, very start.


	5. Wither (Lysander x MC)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A companion piece of Heartlines, a little earlier in the chapter set.

Lysander’s world tilts on his axis when his mother flatlines. Him and his brother are no strangers to grief, ever since their father passed away, but it doesn’t prepare them for feeling it again.

He’d expected to cry, grief contorting his face, tears streaming down his cheeks and ugly sniffles reddening his nose. But – nothing. Nothing, just a feeling starting from his heart, sinking deep into his stomach, to his core, stiffening him as his mother’s hand cools in his, leeching his warmth. He doesn’t feel the doctor’s hand on his shoulder, nor hear the doctor’s words. All he can see is his mother’s face, eyes shut, the deep lines on her face easing, smoothing into something akin to peace.

Peace for her. He ought to be jealous, really, but it’s a terrible thing to say, to think, because he knows she would never leave them if she could. He has to remember – he has a brother, and he too –

Across the bed, holding his mother’s other hand, Leigh is still. Lysander doesn’t want to look up and see his face. Leigh recovers first, and Lysander sees him get to his feet, turning to the doctor. Lysander is still holding his mother’s hand, a part of him hoping if he holds it a bit longer, the ECG will start back up, beeping slow and steady, that his mother will breathe, that her hand will grasp his weakly, warmly, and she’d still be with them.

The nurse prises him away, hand on his elbow, and guides him away from his mother’s sick(death)bed. He hears the words morgue and preparation, muffled and distorted in his hearing, and the rest fades into static. Leigh’s hand finds his, and the two brothers clutch onto each other, like the time they’d been separated from their parents in their sprawling village market, no one but themselves to cling onto. Except this time, neither their mother nor their father would come back for them. As the seconds tick by, the realisation settles in, the knowledge for the first time, they are –

Alone.

Leigh is the older one, the one who steered their family through the days when their father passed away, while Lysander was the one who comforted his mother as she cried and withered before their eyes. So Lysander stays with Leigh, keeps him close, grounded as they push their way through what needs to be done: documents to be signed, accounts to cancel, assets to transfer into their names, the taxes, who to tell, how to say goodbye.

But it is a distraction, so they both go over the papers, make checklists, their minds running like clockwork. Lysander writes arrangements down on fresh paper and gives a copy to Leigh, because he is most definitely going to lose it and there will be no one to pick up and return it to him. Once, there was (she would), but it still hurts too much to think of it, and he can only process one heartbreak at a time.

When night falls, they return to their family home, the farmhouse, now too large, too cavernous, too empty. They sit in the living room, nothing but the cuckoo clock their father and mother had bought in the hallway counting out the time slipping through their fingers. Each tick is a second closer to daylight, a second further away from their mother’s death. Neither leaves their spot on the couch, until Leigh’s grumbling stomach makes its protests known and wrings a paper-thin smile from them both.

They eat from their mother’s favourite earthenware casserole, lifted straight off the stove, and the dish tastes like cardboard. Even putting away the dishes into the sink wears them out, but they press on, push on, for each other, not themselves.

Leigh sequesters himself into his room, phone in hand after that, and Lysander doesn’t need to guess who he will be calling. His own heart twinges, remembering warmth, comfort, but the memory is far, faint and cold. He misses it, misses her, and the thought of it only sharpens his grief. He shuts it away, because they hadn’t spoken in months, and who knew if she had time to even listen?

He keeps telling himself that, even as Rosalya arrives from Sweet Amoris and throws herself into Leigh’s arms, sobbing for Leigh, for Lysander, for their mother. She hugs Lysander too, but it’s not quite the same, and he feels like a third wheel seeing the two of them so close, Rosalya holding Leigh’s hand as they move through what needs to be done. He knows he should feel happy for the two of them, going so strong, but there’s always that little part of him, twinging, hurting –

And a week after Rosalya arrives, finally, when the papers are stacked too high, the phone calls are too numerous, the sympathy from neighbours and strangers too suffocating… He finds himself sitting outside the farmhouse in the dark, Rosalya out shopping for their groceries and Leigh burrowing away in what needs to be done, hands shaking and remembering a number he thought he’d never call again.

But he needs to hear her at least, his heart pounding out of his chest, his breath rattling in his lungs as he tries to calm himself. Part of him hopes she won’t pick up, that she’ll let it ring on. A part of it hopes she will, and an even smaller part hopes she’ll listen and talk, if only for a while. He’s being selfish and silly, he knows, but in this moment, he wants to be selfish, just for him.

His heart is in his throat when he presses the green button, and he waits.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If it's of any comfort, you all know how this one ends...?


End file.
